In every blog, there’s always one entry that is a waste of anybody’s time to read…

(in some, more than others!)

It’s a Friday night and I rewarded myself by coming home early. And by “early”, I mean leaving the office at 7pm! Vernie had a craving for “sumfink hewty” so we both ruled out dim sum and mamak food, and headed for Subway samwiches at Menara Millenium. Not as a great as O’Brien’s, but it beats having to drive to The Curve on a Friday evening! And to cap a great dinner, I had a present from a visiting “relative” – who so considerately decided to leave a stain on my skirt… right… at… that… spot… NNNNNG-GAAAHHHH!!!!

Having ssoooo much time on my hands, I decided to watch a chick flick (after a useless week of rendang, muruku and too much sleep, your brain is a slab of mush anyway). “The Devil Wears Prada” was the perfect choice for a non-intellectually challenging movie. I have to hand it to Anne Hathaway – she has such a fantastic and infectious smile! I found myself breaking into one each time she smiles on screen. That girl is angelic!

The movie ended – and I couldn’t believe it wasn’t even 11pm yet! By golly – had I still been working in the big agencies, I would be clocking in for night shift right about now! Oh… what’s a girl to do… but read a silly interview on Vince Vaughn in last fall’s InStyle magazine? And so silly was the interview that I decided to play celebrity and answer some of THOSE questions myself!! (Some questions altered to suit the entry, but all answers are impromptu.)

SO, WHAT’S YOUR FAVOURITE...

Film:
- A Few Good Men, In The Name Of The Father, Dead Poet’s Society, Scent Of A Woman, Dead Man Walking, I Am Sam, Crash, Pulp Fiction. Erm… did you say filmSSSS?


Reality TV show:
- Only one worth watching, really. The Apprentice.

Childhood TV show:
- aahhahahahahaa… The A-Team!! (I was madly in love with Murdock… I mean, IN LOVE!!), Eight Is Enough, Seven Brides For Seven Brothers (eh, so many numbers one?), V, Battlestar Galactica (yang ori!!), Buck Rogers in the 25th Century. OK that’s all I remember.

Love song:
- The Answer, Sarah McLachlan. Annie’s Song, John Denver. When I’m With You, Sheriff.

Book:
- The Prophet, Kahlil Gibran. Midnight’s Children, Salman Rushdie. Jungle Book, Rudyard Kipling. Is it me, or don’t all these books have something to do with India or Middle East?

News source:
- CNN, The Star, The Edge, BBC. I like DW sometimes because they’re soooo devilishly rebellious!

Government leader:
- That’s easy! None. (Do Mandela and Aung San Suu Kyi count?)

Car:
- Beemers – hands down. If I could afford it, I would do a BIG, HUGE X5!!! Failing which, a 5-year old 660cc manual Kancil will do fine… sigh.

Sport:
- No particular sport. I’m so un-hip aren’t I? But if I absolutely must, I’ll watch tennis – men’s only, please – them tight asses in teeny-weeny white shorts quite do it for me, thank you! And probably some football – remnants of my “forced” World Cup frenzy.

(“Forced” because in my last job, we did a World Cup tie-in for our client, and we girls had to practically watch ALL the matches in order to get the project running on a daily basis – which eventually turned out to be fun, because I discovered that Zizou, Figo and Cannavaro are abso-smurf-ly yummyyyy!!!)

Item of clothing:
- 2 things: my Padini Authentic shorts and Dockers cargo pants. I’ve had both of them forever, and they go with everything! I dread the day it falls to pieces. I’m not kidding when I say ‘forever’ – they’re almost 7 years old, babe!

City:
- KL lah… what to see in JB and Ipoh? I like Singapore too. But that’s only because I’ve never traveled further than that!! aahahahhahaa….

Landmark:
- Must say am quite proud of our Twin Towers. They look crappy in postcards but when seen upfront, up close, they still leave me in awe. Apart from that, I love the old kopitiams and rustic backlanes of our smaller towns. Poetry in motion.

Candy bar:
- Kit Kat in Lemon Cheesecake coating!! I actually love chocolates but they give me migraines. So I’m pretty much reduced to ONE cube – cube! – of chocolate a month. Or two. Or three… Or…

Fruit:
- Mango, papaya, rambutan, lychees. I’m such an Asian! yay!

Time of year:
- April, because I take most of my holidays then. And year-end, not because I go on holiday, but my clients do!! And that leaves me with no stress, no work, and a paycheck at the end of the month!! Fa la la la laaa la la la laaa…

Breakfast:
- Cranberry Almond Crunch! Banana Nut Crunch! And once a decade, nasi lemak, char kuay teow, curry laksa, yau char kuay, roti telur and rava thosai!!!!

Thing about Malaysians:
- We’re not too kampung, and not too civilized. A bit awkward, a little naïve, but strong, smart, and always willing to learn, always trying that little bit harder. Always smiling, sometimes humble, but not without self-respect. This by no means refers to the politicians and orang kaya baru’s that wreck the good Malaysian soil with their rotting attitudes and obstinacies.

Compliment:
- I still don’t get it, but when people tell me I’m “sweet”. Basket, they haven’t heard me swear! But my favourite is from my ex-colleague Stef Tan, who claims that my mom ate too much cotton candy while carrying me, and that’s why I’m so sweet and fuzzy. AAWWWWWW… but WAIT! Stef’s a copywriter… biatch!

Ok, ok... no more! no more! :P ... hey, why don't YOU take this interview yourself? Will be quite fun to look back at this 1 year from now. IF your blog is still in existence that is.

Revelations 10:06

Dear M,



When we first met,
I remember telling you that
I would rather be alone
Than to be owned.
And to this very day
I still feel the same way.



When I was with you
I’ve made myself do
Things I never thought I would
Things I never thought I could
Things I knew I should
Both bad and good.




But one thing remains
And this I say with pain,
That you and I
Are nothing but a lie,
An idea, a fantasy, a sigh
Nothing, by the by.




An alternate reality
A girl with no identity
A temporal fixture
Existing only for your pleasure
A sin so clandestine
She is robbed of her spine.



I apologise
But I must arise
I cannot be your slave
To beckon when you crave
I have too much self worth
To live only to serve.



With this declaration
I await your decision
Will we ever meet again?
Will you still call me “friend”?
Either way this will reveal the truth
If I ever meant anything to you.

TRAMPLED!!

The hippopotamus landed with a thud today.

Was doing some balancing thingy on the trampoline with PT Kim and landed on the edge of the 'pline. It flipped over and lunged towards me. I fell forward, landing SPLAT! on the 'pline on my belly but not before gallantly breaking the fall with my left thigh and my right elbow. I now have war scars on those spots. Nice colours I must say. Looks like strawberry and raspberry jam. Tomorrow it will have a yellow ring around it, and that will look like lemon sauce.

On the sunny side, I've lost 2kg. Kim said "wah, losing weight ah", and I said "no lah, I'm wearing bigger clothes".

I'm sorry Grandma... I don't love you

nce upon a time, there lived a malicious, juvenile, selfish, power-crazed, son-favouring, glory-seeking, rumour-mongering, sympathy-seeking, money-minded swine who had seven children – four daughters and three sons. A daughter, a daughter, a son, a daughter, a son, a son and a daughter. The eldest daughter was adopted, so that makes the second daughter the rightful Firstborn. However, because she was a girl, she was to have no place nor share in the family heirloom. That honour was bestowed upon the eldest son, the second born. Sadly, that much-loved son passed on early in life.

Without a doubt, the two younger sons were favoured above everyone else and their families were heralded as heaven-sent deities. They were presented with jewellery, precious stones and priceless objects just for existing on this good earth. The rich get richer, they say.

Of the three daughters, the two younger daughters married into wealth – and this pleased the old swine tremendously as it gave her bragging rights and the justification she needed to give them their rightful places on the family tree. Alas, the Firstborn daughter did not enjoy such prosperity. She had followed her heart and married a good, humble man of modest income and insignificant birth. “Your eyes are in your panties!” the old swine shrieked when she heard of the news. And from that day forth, the Firstborn had no choice but to rough it alone, living on love, fresh air and sunshine.

The Firstborn gave life to three overweight brats who caused her immense pain and infinite joy all at once. Although semi-estranged, she was still summoned to the ruling family’s occasions, if only to quench the ridiculous power-drenched face-saving desire of her mother, the matriarchal swine. All that effort lugging her three children and modest husband around – and all she got was more ridicule.

“Your children have no confidence or personality!”
“How come they all look like their father? Features all not nice!”
“Your husband doesn’t know how to make conversation.”
“Why are you wearing last year’s dress?”
“Please throw your shoes away. The kway-teow lady has better taste than you!”

…

The matriarchal swine gave all the children jewellery from time to time. She would distribute the jewels based on “suitability”, “priority”, “more deserving” and other urine-drenched criteria. For the afore mentioned reasons, the Firstborn somehow always got the smallest, the ugliest, the worst quality, the flawed one. But she held out her hand humbly and accepted what remnants of love were dished out to her. For years, she stood by and watched as gift after gift was showered upon her younger siblings.

And then came the straw that broke the camel’s back.

The Firstborn had asked the matriarchal swine for an antique chest of drawers, and nothing more. “I have never asked of anything from you” she said, “but this one thing which I have loved ever since I was a little girl. May I please be given your chest of drawers when you no longer have the need for it?”

Yes, of course, the swine had promised. Year after year, the Firstborn reminded her mother of the chest of drawers. Year after year, her mother the swine said Yes, of course.

And yet one fateful day, the Firstborn chanced upon her younger sister’s negotiation with the swine on that very same chest of drawers. And to her utmost chagrin, the swine immediately cleared the drawers out and surrendered it to the second daughter. No, I did not promise it to you, she had denied. No, I definitely don’t remember it at all!

The Firstborn left for home and told her story to her three brats, and they all cried for her. I’m not sure about the other two brats, but I’ve personally made an oath to never forgive my grandmother for what she did to my mother. Not even if she were choking on a chicken bone and begging me for help.

Grandmother, I hate that I am related to you.
Grandmother, I will NEVER forgive you for being who you are, for doing what you did to all of us.
Grandmother, you will NOT have a morsel of my grief when you die. The only grief I will have is for my mother, in that she will lose her useless mother. Good riddance to bad rubbish.

You swine. When my brother was no more than a toddler, cousin Aaron roughed him up. When they both started crying, you hit my brother. Fuck you.

You scum. You gave my sister and I rejected jewels from a bracelet that you disliked. I gave it to my mother for safekeeping so that she can pawn it for money one day when she needs to make that trip to Rome.

You cretinous ebola strain. You told my mother not to burden her with OUR visits because we wore you out. You stupid bitch, the only reason we stay with you is just to give you face. I can fucking afford to put my mother up in the Raffles Hotel if I wanted to and don’t need to subject ourselves to your mosquito-infested house, driving our grey matter crazy with your nauseating Chinese variety shows and downgrading our palette to your canine-worthy leftover food. AND THAT’S WHY WE, THE LAW SIBLINGS, NEVER SET FOOT IN YOUR FUCKING HOUSE ANYMORE. And I don’t fucking care if I don’t see you alive anymore. You are dead in my eyes and my heart to begin with.

The swine is ill, and these next few weeks may be her last. I am looking forward to taking a much-deserved holiday from work on the pretext of “compassionate leave”. Singapore, here I come! And I should ask Aaron to buy that iPod Shuffle clip now so that I can collect it during that trip.

Matilah aku...

I’m into Week 7 of my road-back-to-shape project, with 17 gym visits and – give and take – 12 Personal Training sessions out of 26. Yes, I’m keeping tabs with scrutiny because it’s a love-loathe emotional bond, this whole gym thing. While I love the fact that I DO feel the benefits and love getting compliments about how I look now, I abhor the painful sessions with my trainer Kim.

It’s good, though – with Kim around, he pushes me on and on when I feel like giving up. He torments me with comments like “C’mon, what is that? Why are you crying? That’s too easy!!” to “How many are you gonna give me? 10? Too easy – gimme 15. If you break, gimme 20!” I’m not sure if psychology is one of their qualifications, but he has pretty much got me figured out – he knows how much I hate feeling belittled, and he knows that if he throws me a challenge, he’d better be prepared because I try. It’s all good.

And yet I cringe before my sessions. Every single time. If Stephen King built my character into his novel “It”, my monster would be … The STAIR MASTER. I hate the pain. My heart beats so fast and my legs hurt so much. And the day after, I can hardly sit because my butt hurts so badly. I now do Level 9 at 58 floors in 15 minutes. “Only??” Kim remarks, “That’s so-so.” AAARRRGGHHH. Truth is, I do 7 minutes non-stop, then break for a few seconds to catch my breath, then do the remaining 8 minutes in spurts of 2-3 minutes. That’s why it’s “only” 58 floors. And after that, I have to do the Ark for another 15 minutes. He has stopped me from doing the treadmill because he thinks it’s too easy for me. Sob sob.

Last Friday, Kim told me in a fairly warning tone that he was going to put me through an excruciatingly thorough check-up to mark my progress thus far sometime after Raya. Why this gets me nervous I don’t know. After all, I have lost some inches here and there and I watch my diet closely. I swear he’s trying to undermine me again. He knows I’ll rise to the challenge. Dammit. I sent my gym buddy Faeez an SMS saying that if I go Raya and Diwalli visiting, I’ll have to pack my own food. Boiled vegetables. Matilah aku…

I really have to apologize to my blog readers (if I have any that is) if my gym grimacing is beginning to sound like a stale tale but it seems to be a major part of my life at the moment. I’ve never done serious exercise, never kept up a good diet program, never even been remotely fit! This whole thing is new for me. However I also know that there are more than enough obese Malaysians who are not doing something about their health. Perhaps they’re living in oblivion. Perhaps Vogue was never their favourite magazine. Perhaps Spring/Summer never meant anything more than cherry blossoms and Chinese New Year to them. And I actually feel sad for them. Shallow as it sounds, it really makes a difference to how the world views you if you’re fat. There are enough fat jokes and discrimination against fat people. They think you’re sloppy, messy and disgusting. You can be the most genteel and educated person but because you’re fat, you’ll sweat a little more, breathe a little heavier, eat a bigger portion – and that’s taboo in the eyes of the shallow.

Before you begin to criticize my observations, let me assure you that I speak from experience. Hel~lo – I’m 5’1” and weigh 67 kilos. My hips are so wide I wear a size 44 bottom. My chest area is so bulky I have to wear frumpy tops from the Plus size range because bloody fashion labels don’t understand that some women are allowed to be buxomous!! My friend who designs her own maternity wear fashion range uses me as a model. And all my life, I’ve had to work that much extra harder just to be accepted as a person worthy of being noticed. While being noticed is one hurdle overcome, the other is the challenge of finding that someone who will fall in love with me for who I am, behind this generously overflowing folds of fat.

The easy way out is, of course, to “…not give a damn about what the world thinks of you…” blah blah blah. Stop kidding yourselves lah. There is no such thing. People who say that are people who do care, and they do care that the world sees that they don’t care, and they do care if they are seen to care when they shouldn’t. Well folks – I DO care what the world thinks of me. I’ve worked too hard to get to where I am, and it would be a terrible waste if I didn’t overcome this one simple hurdle – to get slim and trim.

On a parting note, I was actually digging some dirt up on my gym recently (hehheh) and came across their testimonial page on their website. Instead of making me puke, it made me stronger-willed believe it or not! I don’t believe it!!! I’m a sucker for testimonial ads!! Oh my God, I’ve been dispelling this notion for the longest time while working on Nivea!!! Anyway, these are real-life accounts of actual ‘ornery’ Joe’s and Jane’s who worked their way to fitness. I can actually relate to some of their insights. And honestly, I really can’t fault Kim at all for anything. No dirt on this guy. He’s been nothing but a motivator and is in essence a cool dude. We get along, and it’s actually fun to see him. Faeez says he wants to be like Kim when he grows up (lol), and it’s not difficult to see why. The dude’s got looks and character, and he’s passionate as hell about fitness. And that kinda rubs off on you when you’re with him.

Ah well, another grim gym entry comes to an end. More grimacing to come…

Ode to Desperate Wanting

Inspired by The Urban Poet








Your face haunts
Your words taunt
Your promises flaunt
That which daunts
Your memory warrants
A flow of currents
The heart beckons













Hercules
Achilles
Adonis
Tease
Appease
Oh, please
You beast!
Feast
On my bliss
While I cease
To breathe













How sweet
Your bitterness
So replete
With emptiness
I deplete
My happiness
Must needs
The loneliness











Lick
My bleeding wounds
Suck
My poisoned heart
Wet
My scorching soul
Finger
My ruffled pride
Thrust!
My virgin mind
Quicken!
My staggered thoughts
Come
My departing pulse
Fill
My dank spirit
Awaken
My tired inspiration


Republished, circa May 2005

The World, United

This post can well be called anything in between "Love All, Serve All" to "See No Evil". This year marks the 40th anniversary of Benetton, the fashion poster child for conscientious objection and consience raising. I leave you with their campaigns to tell you the tale.

United Colors of Benetton, we will never get enough of you.






www.benettongroup.com/en/whatwesay/fabrica.htm

www.benettontalk.com

Grim Gym Sins

When my brother joined the gym way back when, my mother threw such a fit it was unbelievable. She gave him hell for the fact that it was expensive, a waste of money and time, the supplements were expensive and that he could injure himself, yadda yadda yadda. Old folk and their paranoia. It didn’t end there either. She told the universe about it, kicking and screaming. My brother didn’t speak to her for months. It’s not one of those things that “scarred me for life”. More like, we’ll know better never to tell her if we ever joined the gym ourselves.

I can totally understand my mother’s total disapproval of the gym. Back in the day – pre-Merdeka, post Japanese Occupation, Malaysia was not unlike a jakun teenager from the kampung, trying to adjust to the big city life. We were largely (and hey, we still are!) an agri-centric nation. Food was scarce, work was laborious and people just moved a lot more. In fact, the surroundings were just one, big monolith gym. The only people who did pump some iron were those who made a living out of it. But what was gym in those days but a few crowbars capped with iron donuts, a coupla benches padded with sponge and uber-retro fabric and some makeshift tools the creative owner made in his backyard. None of those “Platinum Membership” gimmicks, no sirree.

But I shan’t negate this whole idea because I just signed up with a gym myself – complete with a Personal Trainer, mind you! For the record, this has got to be one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. I mean – look at me – all of 34 years of age, 20 kilos overweight, drained out by the ravages of advertising (yes, that infamous vampirical industry that sucks the life outta ya…), never exercised a day in my life. At some point in our lives, we’ve just got to own up to regressing metabolic rates and unkind gravitational pulls in our body. No matter how carefully you watch what you eat, the food won’t go anywhere anytime soon but lay there in your belly, hips, thighs and just about anywhere else. Stop laying the blame on water retention during periods because it’s been 3 weeks since the last drop. Stop thinking it’s your gastric problem and that you HAVE to eat so you don’t get heartburn. Trust me – all of these will disappear once you start exercising. (Honestly, I don’t believe I’m writing this…)

I still get the heebie-jeebies everytime I go to the gym for my session. My trainer is merciless and I end up nauseous and bunched up in the shower afterwards. I don’t even have the energy to soap myself. But I wake up the next morning and look at my taut tummy in the mirror reflection, and it’s all worth it. I still have a looooonnnggg way to go, my trainer tells me, but it’s a journey I’m willing to take. I don’t want to end up being 50, obese with under-developed muscles and immobile. In short, I don’t want to be my mother. Looking to the future, being retired should be the best time of one’s life to finally enjoy the fruits of one’s labour. It’s no use if you’re going to spend it hobbling with a walking stick, huffing every 15 minutes and making a nuisance of yourself to the people around you. (Of course I’m quick to the defense to say that I love my mother and I’d do anything for her without complaint, willingly with all my heart.)

I’m proud to say that for the first time in my life, I’m watching my diet with such ferocity and I don’t even crave the sinful foods that I used to eat mindlessly. I have watchdogs in the form of my brother and my lahling soulmate Verne who help me along with my food intake, and who cheer me on relentlessly. I feel healthier. I can do more things without breaking into sweat so easily. You know I didn’t know that one of the things I lacked was body balance. My trainer puts me through painful balancing regimes that make me look like Ballerina Hippo on crack. He says it’s to strengthen my lower back. Amazingly, that affects everything! I can actually run across the street without tripping over my own feet haha!

My advice to you is to do something about your health if you’re overweight and don’t feel too fantastic about yourself. But if you feel perfectly happy with yourself, then it’s OK. But what is “feeling perfectly happy”? An alternative reality you created so that you could fit right in to that comfort zone you created for yourself? I fess that I did do such a thing. I’m no beauty queen, but I’m no Ernest Borgnine either, and I do have my fair share of ‘interested parties’. For the longest time, I sought solace in that fact and repeatedly told myself that I was made for those who liked ‘em plump, and that if they had a problem with my being fat, then they weren’t meant for me. But everyday I look at my tyres, and I feel so unsexy. How could anyone love my body if I didn’t do so myself?

Armed with that, I resolved to love it. But before I could, I had to make it into something I could love. And so I did. I hope that everytime I read this entry, it would inspire me to continue, to love the pain and not find an excuse not to go. I hope that I will take this as a challenge to be something I have never been before. I have been a workaholic, I have been a survivor, I have resurrected from many a flame, I have fought and thrived. But I have never won the battle with mine own body.

I’d like to see me win this one major reality contest. If you do too, then drop me a shout out. The louder the cheers, the harder I’ll work.